


Rush

by theadventuresof



Category: Death Note
Genre: M/M, Other, happy death-day light yagami, sad and no porn, sorry - Freeform, welcome toh ell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5838211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's explore the world of nothingness together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rush

 

Though I have seen I cannot understand

The power in each dazzled web of wings

That bore him up, and swept him forth to land

Amid a thousand one resplendent golden strings.

 

But painted cheeks and fingers, flitting, bled;

He convulsed with a cry he never made—

When Paris missed his screams and cheered instead,

Cracked lips and teeth and popping eyes decayed.

 

And through the silence ringing black and hot

His canvas landed, splattered through with spite;

Left mind to waste and body, living, rot—

His essence torn in sacrificial Rite.

 

I have seen him rising at the break of day—

Mad golden slave, now violet cloaked in gray.

* * *

 

 

He knows nothing but red, nothing but vessels bursting and popping with some faint fizz in the back of his skull. Nine dullish lines press into the back of his legs and his shoulders and his head but the worst is the set of burning holes in his chest and in his shoulders and arms. His hand is shattered and wet and hot but getting colder. Pointed shoes around his feet; blood in his hair. It’s sticky and he wants to brush it away but his arm won’t lift. Spinning sensation in his head, and he’s sinking into whatever this surface is and he’s falling and falling and he’s not so afraid anymore. He can’t remember exactly what he was afraid of in the beginning, but it’s gone anyway. Everything is gone…

Cold hands on his shoulder, his chest, the back of his head. There is blue bleeding into the red, or maybe he is bleeding into the blue, and he remembers gunshots but nothing about that matters because it’s L, reaching spindly fingers behind his head and lifting him more gently than he ever could have expected into his arms.

“Am I dead?” he does not say, because he has no voice. L holds him more tightly, presses a finger to his white lips, and they step into nothingness together and the stairwell is gone.

* * *

 

Several minutes and a thousand billion miles away, Matsuda discovers his bloody form splayed on the stairs. 

* * *

 

“I missed you,” says L without preamble. Light is still adjusting to his not-body and he cannot find his voice fast enough.

“Where…?”

L doesn’t answer. “I waited for you,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”

Is there time here in this…non-place, Light wonders, but L has been here longer than he has; it astonishes him to see him again, identical to how he looked on his deathday, while Light has aged five years since then. He has more triangles to him now, the way his cheekbones protrude and his elbows and knees jut out and his chin lifts his entire face up, proud and proper.

Oh and how he had screamed and spat and crowed, his face contorted and twisted as six years worth of intricately concealed secrets boiled over in his chest—he looks down at his tailored suit and the all bullet holes are gone.

“Walk with me,” L says, and Light opens his mouth to confess now that it’s all over but L turns around and looks at him. Something is different about him now. “I know everything,” he says, and Light realizes that he’s standing up straight.

He points this out, and L looks at him again as they start to walk.

“And?” he says, and the next time Light blinks his hair is all wild black curls and his makeup—? makeup is running off his face, scattering into black powder. It’s the last time he sees L’s eyes.

Light blinks again and he’s in his old tennis uniform and his arms and legs are skeletal but his face is rounder, younger; his eyes are wider and brighter and his hair shines more brightly than it has in years. Less triangles; more bones. He reaches for L’s hand and L’s bangs are in his face and he doesn’t let go.

“Did it hurt?” Light asks. “Dying, I mean.”

“That’s what you ask me first?” L smiles invisibly in the darkness, squeezes Light’s hand. His hair is getting shorter but the path is darker and Light is less aware of his tennis uniform; there is a red tie around his neck and his old school shoes tip-tap against something that sounds like pavement. Flashes of gold, specks of it in the blackness, and now there are chain links and shadows passing by on all sides—he seizes L’s hand and they run past faceless men in coats crossing streets with briefcases in their hands—now there is nothing again, just L and Light, breathing hard out of habit, translucent now.

“Keep going,” L says. “Don’t look at the eyes.”

Light has to look, and there they are, poisonous ruby-red and glowing like overlarge stars. _Cursed,_ L’s voice says from afar, from years and years ago, _I would say that he is cursed._

“I wanted to do what I could with the time I had,” Light says. “I didn’t realize I had more time than I thought.”

“I’m glad we met,” is all L says.

The eyes are turning golden and Light still can’t look away. Now they are golden gaps in a chain link fence and he is walking alone, still holding L’s invisible hand, his eyes dull and glazed and his mind full of thoughts of self-imposed starvation. Just Light, grasping at nothing, and L is gone.

Ryuk is waiting for him at the end, but by the time he reaches him he has already dissolved into dust. 

* * *

 

There is a pair of tiny pinprick stars in some faraway corner of the sky, glittering away in the blackness like faraway city lights. Some nights they are nearly invisible to the naked eye, and they quietly gleam for only each other to see, but other nights they blaze brilliant blue like great marquise-cut teardrop diamonds. There is an air of quiet triumph through the blackness in their small pocket of the universe, and they burn and they burn for the world to see. Some people even wish for a better world on them, even though they are wishing deep into the past as they scan the sky for a sign. Perhaps it was all meant to happen from the beginning.

Kira-kira, the stars are singing. Can you hear them? Kira-kira, Kira-kira.


End file.
